A Promise Made
by StrictlyFiction
Summary: My first Sherlock fanfic with an OC, between Baskerville Hound and Reichenbach Fall: Scarlett Watson is John's adopted niece, what happens when she shows up, offering financial support and wanting to help solve crimes? Well she butts heads with Sherlock of course! But, after some bonding time, what happens when a mysterious stranger comes and kidnaps her in the dead of night?
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

I glanced at the sheet of paper again. It said the current residence of Mr. John Watson is 221B Baker Street. I hadn't seen John in years.

I rang the buzzer.

_  
"John, go get that?" Sherlock demanded. They weren't expecting anyone today.

"Why don't you ever get the door?" John questioned as he got up from his seat and closed his computer. Mrs. Hudson was out doing some errands. Sherlock ignored him.

John opened the door to find someone standing there that he thought was gone. Permanently. He hugged her. "I haven't seen you in – "  
_

"Ten years," I finished for him. "How have you been?" I asked in a steady, calm voice. Honestly, I didn't know what else to say.

He released me, staring me in the eyes. "Why don't you come inside and have some tea and we can talk?" he offered. That's when he noticed my singular suitcase. "You can bring that up too, if you want. Actually, let me take it."

"No, it's fine, I can carry it. I would love to have some tea, it's been a long flight," I said, accepting his offer.

Once upstairs, we were greeted by a tall man with dark hair and light eyes. I glanced at John warily.

"Scarlett, this is Sherlock. Sherlock, this is Scarlett, my niece. Be nice." A staring contest had started between us, and I knew he could feel the tension. "Both of you," he finished.

I held my hand out to the man. "It's nice to meet you," I said. He didn't take my hand, I dropped it.

"You're from America, somewhere where there are agriculturists judging from your unclear pronunciations. Also, you just got off a plane that is clear from your hunched shoulders and suitcase. Ah, the suitcase, either you haven't gotten the chance to drop it off somewhere, or you're still looking for a place to stay," Sherlock ranted.

"I told you to be-" I cut my uncle off.

"More," I said, eager to see this man's skills. He raised an eyebrow.

"Judging by your slight – but muscular – frame, you were a gymnast. But, you were never professional because you're too tall and robust. You were adopted because John's sister had a wife, not a husband. You're left handed. You ran away from home and worked hard, the lines and scarred calluses on your hands indicate that. Also, you play a string instrument. You wear a turtleneck to cover something on your neck. "

"You only do surface work, I see. You're wrong on three accounts. I was professional, though only in college, I can use both hands for anything – though I prefer my left – and I wear a turtleneck because I like the fit because it contours to my shape. That's all you can do? I can do better," I challenged.

I heard a, "You can?" and a, "I'd like to see that," from two different people at once.

"Let's see here. You get your hair dyed black, by the way, you need to go in for a touch up, sweetie, your roots are showing. You wear contacts. You probably got bullied in school because of your _wit,_ glasses – I can see where they used to sit – and because you were probably in something like chess club. You're obviously ADHD because of your clear lack of organization, you ramble, – from what very little I've heard of you – you space out a lot, not noticing when someone is gone or missing, and you are incredibly eccentric and don't like to sit still. Are you on medication? Wait, don't answer that, if you were you'd be a little more mellowed out. Not only that, but I can't see any pill bottle around here. Uncle John, you should prescribe him something. From your looks, you're in your early to mid-thirties. On the bright side, I like your fashion sense, it goes well with you."

They were both baffled. Actually, I think Sherlock was insulted and John was awed. He never knew that I could do this much. Honestly, I only learned how to do it after Clara and Harry had adopted me, when they enrolled me in gymnastics. It helped to have a clear and observant mind while doing tricks and flips like that.

"I think I'll make that tea now," John said awkwardly. Sherlock and I continued to stare each other down as my uncle left the room.

"I'm not ADHD, I just know how to be observant."

"I don't have unclear pronunciation," I retorted. "You just assumed from less than ten words."

"You don't like tea; you wrinkled your nose involuntarily when John mentioned it."

"I'll survive, I always have."

"You still have the unclear pronunciations and a southern drawl," Sherlock evoked.

"I don't have one and you obviously don't know what you're talking about."

"I think I do."

"Stop it and shut up," I said angrily.

"Sorry, I can't understand you. Could you say that again, more clearly?"

I punched him.

And Uncle John walked in.

"Does _no one_ know how to do what I ask them? Why did you punch him?"

"Sorry, uncle, you know I was never and good at following the rules. Oh, and he provoked me. He was teas_ing_ me about not _pronunciating_ clearly enough," I replied with venom in my voice, though the venom was only directed at Sherlock. Uncle John shook his head like he was trying to wrap his head around some strange thought. He helped Sherlock off the floor.

"Well, at least now you can pronunciate clearer," Sherlock commented as he worked his jaw.

"Maybe you could clean up your place to see if you've got the attention span to do it," I answered, pursing my lips.

"You'd make a great couple," Uncle John said sarcastically. At least, I hope he was being sarcastic. "The tea's ready. Sherlock, would you like some?"

"I think I'm going to go out and get some air," he said, grabbing a trench coat and scarf and shrugging them on. "I'll see you later, _John_."

He walked out the door.


	2. Chapter 2

**I realize that I didn't add a disclaimer at the beginning of my story so:**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters. Although, I do own the idea of my original character, Scarlett.**

**I will try to update at least once every one to two weeks. Sometimes, as with my other stories on quotev, I will forget because of my homework, etc. and the stories will go on hiatus.**

**Also, if any are interested, I will be moving my stories from quotev over to FF**

**Hope you like my story!**

* * *

"How did you _meet_ that guy?"

"It's a long story," John answered. "What've you been doing in the past ten years?"

"That's a long story too," my uncle gave me the look like 'tell-me-anyway-or-I'll-tell-your-parents-you-stole-cookies-out-of-the-cookie-jar'. "Fine. Things were heating up at home, you know, with Harry's drinking, and I couldn't stand it. As you know, I ran away a little after I turned sixteen. I got a job and saved up some money then flew to America. I contacted my family's old lawyer and found out that they had left me a large inheritance. It was mostly money and things I didn't need. There was a large estate and a mansion, a college fund, jewelry, trinkets, things like that. I sold most of it and gave a lot of money to charity. But," I said, removing a pair of gloves and a picture from my coat pocket, "I kept a few things. These gloves were my mother's and the picture was taken before they died."

I could tell it pained John to hear me talk about my _real_ family, like he didn't matter. But he did.

I stared at the photo. It was of me sitting on a swing in our home's backyard with my father pushing the swing and my mother on the swing next to mine. I had gotten my father's golden brown hair and high cheekbones and my mother's green eyes and slightly upturned nose. They were both gorgeous. In the picture, I looked to be about six. John was looking at the photo with me.

"Why'd you come back? It sounds like you had a great time there."

"After I found this stuff out, I took my GED and entered college. There, as I said before, I did some gymnastics. I got a degree in fashion, but also took advanced science and math courses. Not many people liked me for me other than my team. After graduation, I worked as a glorified assistant for someone until I couldn't take her anymore. Then, I came here. Nothing much."

"You still didn't answer my question," John reminded me.

"I missed my family here. Does it make sense that I can have two families?" I was a little confused on the matter myself, but I didn't show it, I just was wondering if he understood what I was feeling.

"It does, in a way. When Clara and Harry adopted you, you were only twelve and you could probably still remember your biological parents if you tried. How did they die? Did you find out?" he replied.

"Apparently they died in a car crash. Or, more like it, a limo on car crash. They were going to a social event when they crossed an intersection some other car crashed into the back end of their limo."

I looked away from the picture, away from John's face, away from everything. I just stared out the window, at nothing. "I came back because I heard you were starting to unofficially solve cases with this Sherlock guy. I thought that it might be nice to help, something interesting. I mean, my gymnastics career is over, I found out all I wanted to about my parents, and fashion isn't working out as great as I thought it might. Also, I read your blog, I thought you might need some financial help too, every once in a while."

"Did they ever arrest the person who killed your parents?" John asked, seeing right through me.

"No," I answered simply. "The man who crashed into the limo died too, an airbag malfunction or something like that. He was drunk."

"I'm guessing you also need a place to stay?" he questioned, changing the subject.

"Places around here are so hard to find."

"Well, I could ask Sherlock if-"

"Ask me what?" Sherlock strode in to the kitchen quietly. I hadn't even heard the door open or close. He pulled up a chair and sat at the table in between John and me. "Oh, you're still here. Well, what are we talking about?"

I pressed my lips, I didn't like this guy, he seemed like a jerk. A smart jerk, but a jerk all the same.

John saw my reaction and answered for me. "She needs a place to stay until something becomes available. I was hoping she could stay with us a while."

"What's your name again?"

"Uncle John told you earlier. Besides, I was just hoping you to point me in the direction of a hotel or something. I kind of forgot my way around London."

"Name and reason you are here please."

_You live with an ass_, I wanted to tell John. But I didn't. It would be rude – well not any ruder than punching the man – and it wouldn't get me any points. "Scarlett Watson. I wanted to help solve crimes and provide any financial support when necessary," I responded.

He held his hand out to me. I shook it as he said, "Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Your efforts will most likely be unnecessary but they could be useful. Do you really think I have good style?"

"I think you've got a big head. But, yes, I think you've got excellent style." I got up from my seat. "If you really want me here, I'll take the couch."

"Nonsense, I'll have Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, set you up a room," John told me.

"Oh dear, she must never hear the end of you two. Poor woman. Well, I can help her cook and, uh," I glanced around the kitchen/dining area, "clean. What do you have in the fridge? I could whip something up for dinner," I suggested.

I stood up and smoothed out the wrinkles in my clothes. I stepped over towards the refrigerator. Once my hand reached the handle, Sherlock said, "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

"Yes, well, first off, you're not me. Second, what could be so horrible that's in here?" I opened the door.

Then I saw what was so bad. There was a human head on the shelf. I closed the door.

My eyes closed of their own accord, my eyebrows shot up, and my mouth opened to say something. Nothing came out. I rubbed my temples before speaking.

"I'm not even going to ask." I opened my eyes, but my eyebrows were still raised. Slowly, I made my way back to my seat.

"I told you not to look," Sherlock taunted.

"He did," my uncle said with a half-smile on his face.

"Would you like to see some of my other experiments?" the madman questioned.

"I'd rather not, thank you."

"Suit yourself," Sherlock tossed me a section of newspaper from across the room, I caught it easily. "Tell me what you think of it."

The headline of the paper read: **Another Body, Cause of Death Still Unknown, Possible Serial Killer At Large**.

It went on to say that, in the last two months, six people have been killed. They all had no relation or connection to each other except that they were visiting from other countries.

I thought over that for a minute before answering, "I think that the M.E. needs to run Potassium tests, they could have overdosed. If they all come from out of country, I'd guess that they were on spring break. Though, who could've done it, would remain a mystery to me. It was probably a serial killer, like the paper says, because who wants to kill themselves, much less a multitude of people, on spring break? The killer probably doesn't like the countries that they came from and thought they supported the political choices of that country."

"Very good," Sherlock stated.

"Frame that moment, he doesn't commend people very often," John joked. Sherlock shot him a look. At least, that's what I thought it was, it was hard to tell with Sherlock, but I could see past the mask hidden in his face. I'm not sure what I saw, but I should rephrase: _Sherlock looked at John_.

A while later, Mrs. Hudson, the wonderful landlady John had mentioned, had arrived with groceries. We spoke in even, hushed tones as I helped her with the bags.

"It sure will be nice to have another girl around here," she had said.

"It must be torture to live with these two, men can be so lazy sometimes."

"You're telling me," she shook her head. "They do absolutely nothing around here. It'll be good to have someone take some of the slack off my dear old shoulders."

"Surely they must do something, other than their 'consulting detective' work."

"If you count shooting holes in my wall at all times of the night with that gun."

"Is that what that is?" I asked, remembering the spray painted smiley face on the accented wall with bullet holes in it.

"I just hope that Sherlock doesn't turn you into a workaholic like he did John."

"From your mouth to God's ears," I said and we both laughed.

After that, I paid Mrs. Hudson for the room I'd be staying in – right next to John's, above Sherlock's. I said my goodnight's and quickly changed into my pajamas.

But I couldn't sleep. Instead, I stayed awake and thought about… things.

I had lied to John… and I felt guilty. Granted, most of it was true, but there were factors that I had left out. I had omitted some of the truth from John.

My parents _had_ died in a car crash, the driver _had_ been drunk and _had_ died… but there was _another_ passenger. It was a purposeful crash. It had been set up. They had taken out my parents were rich and they wanted the money. My parents had no other family. No parents, sisters, brothers, uncles, aunts, _anything_. But the murderers hadn't suspected _me, _the _heir_ to their metaphorical _throne_.

The man who killed them had started to threaten me. I felt like I was being followed all the time and I had started getting notes left in the mail and under my apartment's door. I didn't feel safe anymore. So I ran. I came here. I got away. For now.

And somehow, miraculously, Sherlock hadn't suspected me. Either I am better actress than I thought, or Americans are harder for Sherlock to decipher. Uncle John was always easy to fool. Regardless, I would have to keep my guard up as to not let Sherlock decode me.

Eventually, I fell asleep, but my dreams were filled from memories of my past. For example, when the social worker, police officer, and a cheap public therapist had told me my parents were gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock or any other Sherlock adaptation, nor do I own the original novels. I am just merely bored when I write my fanfictions and it gives me a sense of meaning.**

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I awoke to gunfire.

I quickly grabbed my robe and slipped on my little Pikachu flats before running downstairs. My heart was racing rapidly. I almost thought that whoever had threatened me before had found me and was killing the people that are harboring me for a time. But then I realized that it would take a while longer to track me down.

Instead, it was just Sherlock firing holes into Mrs. Hudson's wall. He was also dressed in a robe and pajamas. He didn't even gaze up to look where he was shooting, yet everything he hit the same spot – in the middle of the large smiley face on the wall.

I looked at the shiny silver men's watch (it was my father's) that stayed on my wrist at all times. It was barely three o'clock in the morning. "What the hell are you doing?" I whispered angrily.

"Passing the time, getting your attention, take your pick," he replied. "I got bored and couldn't sleep. Then I started thinking." He finally looked up at me, with my robe hanging half open. "Well don't you look odd?"

"Yeah, well, you woke me up in the middle of the night. You probably woke up half the neighborhood too," I glanced down at myself as well, in my shorts and tank top with an Espeon hat on my head with Doctor Who socks and Pikachu shoes on my feet and a half-hanging open robe to complete the ensemble. Hastily, I closed my robe and tied it off with the belt at the waist.

"They're used to it. They sleep right through it now-a-days."

"Why is it that you wanted my attention, Sherlock? Because, I swear, if you're just going to berate me some more, I'll go back to bed," I said angrily.

"I just wanted to talk and ask you some questions. Will you answer truthfully?"

I thought about that for a minute or so. Was it possible that this guy saw through my facade I thought about what I knew about him. From his looks, I could tell that he could keep secrets, from anyone. If he dug down too deep, and I promised to answer him honestly, then I could ask him to keep whatever I tell him from everyone else. Finally, I decided.

"Yes, I will answer you _truthfully_, but if I ask you not to tell someone something, would to do it?" I could tell that I had just peaked his curiosity. He was suddenly interested.

"I will."

"Okay then. Shoot," I contemplated that for a second before finishing, "not literally, though." I sat down on the seat directly across from Sherlock.

"Why did you lie to John?"

"I didn't," I said blankly.

"I could see it in your eyes and the way you were fidgeting. You said you would answer honestly."

I pursed my lips, thinking about that for a moment. "I didn't lie, I _excluded_ some details."

"Please elaborate."

"I'd have to tell you what I told my uncle first, and then fill in the blanks. Unless you were listening in on our little conversation?" He simply nodded his head. He was listening earlier.

"Go ahead, I have a feeling your life was interesting, instead of the dull story you sold John."

I tilted my head to the side. "I didn't tell him about the other passenger in the car. The people that had crashed into my parents did it on purpose. The second passenger got out and limped away before the police and ambulance even arrived on the scene." I took a deep, steadying breath. "As I told John, my parents were wealthy, but that also came with a price. My mother's sister was in deep debt with drug dealers. Of course, my mother, being the lovely, caring woman she was, decided to lend her sister money every now and then and insisted on putting her into a rehabilitation center, but she wouldn't go. My mother kept lending her money, until one day, she overdosed. The drug cartel came after my parents since my aunt had told them about my parents being the ones who lent her the money. They wanted paid."

"So they set up the accident hoping that one of them would live so they could manipulate them into payment. But neither did so they immediately thought you would give them money if they threatened you and reminded you of your parents," Sherlock guessed.

"Not exactly," I interrupted. "They didn't know about me. For a while, they thought all the money and hard work and people they sacrificed were gone and for nothing. They didn't know for fifteen years until I came back to America. When I contacted my family's old lawyer, he said that my parents had had their will set up for a while before they died, and since there was no other living family member, it would have all gone to me anyway. When the dealers found out about me, through a person that kept pick-pocketing me, I started receiving threats. Letters slipped under the doorway that said things like, 'Payment or Death,' or, 'Remember what happened to your parents? We could make it happen to you,'. Then there were the ones in the mailbox with pictures from the accident. It was terrible."

"So you came here searching for protection with John and I," Sherlock assumed, with a slight grin on his face.

"Could you stop making predictions?" I snapped. That wiped the smug look right off his face. I breathed in. "Not really, not _initially_. I actually came to England because I figured that if I'd stayed in America, they'd get me a lot quicker. England was just the first place that came to mind and I thought about John and Harry and Clara. I really was going to go to a hotel, but I hadn't decided which one yet. So, I thought I'd pass the time by visiting John. We were always closer than I was with my adoptive parents. Does that satisfy your need to know about why I removed some of my story from earlier when I told John?"

"Not really. Why did you omit these things from John?"

"Because a) I didn't want him to know, b) he would've worried immensely about me, and c) I really don't need a pity party right now. Anything else?"

"Yes. Why are you telling me?"

"I told you I'd answer truthfully, did I not? And you know, I know _you_ of _all_ people, won't throw me a pity party, and you'd keep this secret."

"Correct. Now," he had a playful gleam in his eyes now, "what string instrument is it that you play?"

"I play guitar and violin. But I also sing and play piano. My mother had forced violin and piano on me and, after her death, it kind of stayed with me. Daddy taught me to play guitar himself and that's what I used to make money on the streets while bartending before I got to the States. What do you play?" I asked, glancing at his fingertips.

"I, uh, play violin, too," he answered, distracted. "Why is it that you refer to your biological mother as, 'my mother,' but your father as, 'daddy'?"

I thought about that question for a minute before finally answering, " I've only ever had one dad, whereas I've had three moms, I suppose."

"Oh, I thought it was some other reason. You just yelled at me for making assumptions earlier, so I thought I'd let you explain it to me."

"What did you think the other reason was?"

"That you didn't like your biological mother or something like that," he finished. "Well, it's time for bed, don't you think?"

"I think that it was time for bed," I glanced at my watch which read 3:15, "three hours and forty-five minutes ago." I stood up, stretching. My muscles were still sore from falling asleep, waking up, running downstairs, and then sitting in a comfortable chair while almost dozing off explaining to a strange man the details I left out about my life to my uncle.

Sherlock stood up as well and made his way towards his room before I stopped him, "Promise me you won't tell him."

Sherlock considered that for a moment. "I won't," he finally said.

And with that, he headed into his bedroom and closed the door, leaving me alone.

I remained standing for a few minutes, thinking about my conversation with Sherlock, before finally turning off the lights and heading upstairs to bed in the lonely, quiet dark.

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**Tell me what you think! I need fuel! I'm all Sherlock-ed out, my creativeness has stopped flowing! Please, please, please Rate and Review, it'll help!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or BBC or anything you recognize (unless it's from previous chapters, like, I don't know, Scarlett).**

**Thanks to my awesome beta reader Expecto-Prongs! Without you, I wouldn't have been able to notice some of the errors I made! I was way too tired to be writing the chapter that late (it was 4 or 5 in the morning my time) but this is the product anyway (slightly revised of course).**

**Enjoy!**

"Get in the car," the man on the other end of the telephone line ordered me.

"Why?" I asked. I didn't see what this man, who followed me with phone calls until I finally picked up, wanted from me. I didn't know who he was. One moment I was walking along the streets of London, wondering what to do, next thing I know phones start ringing wherever I go. It became annoying before I had finally decided to pick up.

"So that we can talk in person. You know as well as I do that phone lines aren't safe." He had a point there, but what I didn't get was _why_ he wanted to talk to me.

I hung up the phone and stepped into the sleek black car. Honestly, I didn't know what brand it was, I've always been bad with cars unless it concerned what type of gas mileage it got.

Inside, a girl waited for me. I glanced wearily at her, but she didn't seem to notice my presence as she was typing away with her thumbs on a Blackberry. She was obviously some kind of personal assistant, but then again, I couldn't be sure. I just went about ignoring her as she ignored me.

Eventually, the car stopped. I couldn't see where I was from inside the car – because the tint on the windows were too dark – but I knew that wherever I was, this place was deserted. Slowly, I exited the vehicle, carefully putting my heel firmly on the ground before fully revealing myself.

I looked around at my surroundings. I was in a large, abandoned warehouse garage. All around me was grey, the weather outside didn't really help the mood to the place, what with it being all stormy and whatnot. A man stood in the middle of the room, leaning on a black umbrella.

"Ah, you've arrived," he said.

"What do you want?" I asked bluntly, slightly annoyed. It wasn't like I was doing anything important before, but I still don't like to be bothered by strange men with a fad for ringing random numbers on a street, following a person.

"I'm going to make you an offer. Please think it through first before rejecting it, unlike John Watson."

"Whatever, just get on with it. I've got better things to do with my life than stand here and make cryptic conversation with you," I replied.

"Do you have any idea who I am?" the man asked incredulously.

"No, should I?" I questioned with a sarcastic tone to my voice.

"I am Mycroft Holmes-" I cut him off.

"Ah, yes, now I remember. I read about you on my uncle's blog. You're the one who kidnapped him and tried bribing him for information on your brother. You're just a politician with a large ego, not very unusual, except for maybe where you hold your meetings at. Next time, it might be easier – and more cost efficient – if you just phone my mobile and ask me to meet you, I don't know, at your office maybe. But, what do you care? You've got money," I exclaimed with a smirked at his dumbfounded expression, eyeing his **expensive** suit and the very **expensive** wooden handle on his umbrella. (you should think about replacing one of the 'expensive' s with a different adjective)

Mycroft quickly regained his composure. "Yes, but you've got money too, **my dear**. You've also got people after that money, **my dear**. And that's what I'm offering you, protection." (you shouldn't use my dear at the end of both of these sentences)

It was my turn to be shocked. I wasn't sure what he wanted, but I was sure that it was probably nothing good.

"That, and compensation for living with my brother," he finished.

"What is it that you want in turn?" I queried cautiously, testing the waters but also acting – for his sake – like I might take his offer into consideration.

"Simply information."

"Information on what?" I thought about that for a moment before rephrasing. "Or, shall I say, whom?"

"Why, my brother of course. I'd like for you to keep tabs on him for me. Nothing difficult."

"Of course," I replied sarcastically. "From what I've read, as it seems, you don't always see eye to eye with each other. So, naturally, you want to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid."

"Essentially."

"Why would I do this for you? You offer money and protection, but I've already got both. I can protect myself, not to mention I'm staying with John for the time being, who is trained in armed combat. Granted, he was a doctor, but I'm sure he had his bad days. Everyone does." :)

Mycroft was starting to see where this conversation was going, and it was not in his favor. With a snap of his fingers, the assistant from the car came and joined us, handing him a file folder that had **Scarlett Watson **written on the cover. Surprisingly, she never removed her eyes from the phone she was carrying.

"I suggest you rethink the decision you're about to make. I've got everything on you. Now, if I were you, I wouldn't want all of this leaked out to the public, considering it would make your whereabouts known to the people tracking you," Mycroft countered. He handed the folder back to the busy brunette and she set off for the car.

"You've have until next week to make up your mind. My daughter is having her 'sweet sixteen' party that weekend. Bring Sherlock with you, if you don't mind. His niece would like to see him, seeing as how he's the only uncle she's got. You and Sherlock shall receive the details in the mail today," Mycroft finished, walking off, whistling and swinging his umbrella merrily.

"I guess I'll be seeing you then, Mr. Holmes," I shouted after him, rudely and with a smile on my face.

He didn't turn back. I had gotten the last word and that was all that had mattered. Quickly, I got back into the car that had brought me here and sat impatiently as it took me back to 221B Baker Street.

Once back there, I checked the post. Sure enough, there were letters addressed to Scarlett Watson, Sherlock Holmes, and – surprisingly – John Watson, they all had the same envelope.

Curiously, I opened mine and read the delicate script.

_To Ms. Scarlett Watson,_

_You are cordially invited to attend the 16__th__ birthday party of Lillian Holmes. Please come dressed according to the following:_

_A full length ball gown,  
A mask,  
And silken gloves_

Details for what to wear? That was it? No date or time? Though I suppose with Mycroft, he'd just have a fancy car pull up here and have the driver say, "Get in bitches, you're going to a party."

Okay, well maybe not those exact words, but something similar. This girl must be spoiled, her daddy being a politician and her having a masquerade ball for her sweet sixteen. It was a hell of a lot better than I got for my sixteenth.

I took a deep breath and started marching up the stairs.

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